99 Red Balloons
by Amy Mayr
Summary: Massive AU. Grissom is a serial killer, Sara is a forensic psychologist, everyone else is more or less normal. Drama and angst and gore ensue. WIP


Sara's pretty sure there's no better place in the world right now than the passenger seat of Warrick's car. She takes a deep breath--cool, processed air and the faint scent of aftershave. After the stuffy, mixed-food perfumed air in the restaurant, this is heaven. A heaving sigh, mostly to feel her ribs stretch delightfully and Sara slumps back against the seat, closing her eyes and letting her head drop back.  
  
Warrick's low laugh beside her makes Sara roll her closed eyes, but it's the soft lurch of the car pulling away from the curb that makes her open them. She lifts her head too quickly and watches the world spin briefly.  
  
Several glasses of wine had not made the sweet accountant she'd let take her out any more interesting and she'd caved. A quick call on her way to the bathroom and Sara had thanked every deity that she could remember for Warrick when her pager went off with a 911 page a few minutes later.  
  
Ten slightly awkward minutes, then Warrick had arrived, a good five inches taller than her date and face all business. Sara had apologized profusely, smiled sweetly, and has already forgotten where she'd put the business card with his home number scrawled on the back.  
  
A dry chuckle beside her lets Sara know that her little swoon didn't go unnoticed - as if anything does around a criminalist – and Warrick's cool fingers press a lumpy foil packet into her hand.  
  
'You can take them without water. They'll make tomorrow morning a little easier.'  
  
Warrick sounds amused and Sara glares, but Warrick's eyes are on the road. Her glare softens when Warrick reaches over without looking to rub gently at the back of her neck. Sara leans in to it, would purr if she could. High heels make her sore neck to ankles.  
  
'Thanks.'  
  
He nods easily, shifting in his seat, and Sara grins at the garish red of his shirt under his forensics jacket. The only shirt Warrick owns in that color is the 'co-ed naked forensics' tee-shirt Nick had made for them. The one he wears to bed.  
  
'I interrupt anything?'  
  
Sara makes an attempt to keep her tone innocent, but fails miserably, judging from the look Warrick's giving her.  
  
'Only Disney night. Linds was on 'Beauty and the Beast' when you called.'  
  
'You're welcome.' Sara says, and is rewarded with a low laugh.  
  
She dozes most of the rest of the way home, and remembers nothing until Warrick shakes her awake. Sara must look worse that she thinks, because she gets a rare hug, warm and solid and he really is the best at this. She leans against him briefly, smelling popcorn, Catherine, Lindsey, and detergent.  
  
Getting sniffly in Warrick's arms in her driveway at midnight is absolutely out of the question, so Sara squeezes him hard once, thanks him again and makes it up the wet concrete steps to her apartment without stumbling more times than there are steps.  
  
She really hates high heels.  
  
There are three bodies on the floor of a split-level ranch on a quiet suburban street just outside Las Vegas: a man in his late fifties, balding, with a slight paunch. He looks like a banker, maybe an accountant. A woman a few years younger, curly brown hair threaded with gray, the sort of chubby polite people call pleasantly plump. The picture of a housewife. Between them, a young boy, thirteen. Sandy hair with his mother's curls around his ears, knees scuffed up from Little League.  
  
They're laid out in their living room, parallel to each other, with the boy in the middle. If you measured the spaces between them, they would be nearly identical. They have all been shot neatly between the eyes and there is no blood, anywhere.  
  
There is a man standing at their feet. Not quite as un-extraordinary as the father at his feet, his gray hair still has some brown in it. His face is quiet, calm, and polite. Handsome, even. His eyes are blue and they crinkle slightly as he smiles at the family before him. It's the sort of beatific smile saints are painted with.  
  
He's happy, satisfied with the favor he's done for this family. There will be no more arguments, no more yelling. A child's life will not be ripped apart. He lifts his jacket from the back of a chair as he leaves, stoops to pick up a bag with a neat square of folded plastic inside. Outside he struggles briefly with his shoes' rubber coverings. He frowns, liking to leave them on until he gets to his car, but there's been a flash rainstorm and he doesn't want to try walking in the dark on wet pavement with the smooth soles. It could be dangerous.  



End file.
